


Bits and Pieces

by FilmEater



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:14:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FilmEater/pseuds/FilmEater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I seem to have ideas of scenes, one-shots, completely random things that aren't connected to one another. So I think I'm going to start writing them down and putting them here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Goodbye Scene

Everything was going backwards. From the moment they started filming, it was all, quite literally, backwards.

A small city airport, three o’clock in the morning, some commuters in transit were lounging on chairs, leaning against walls, sitting on a barstool nursing drinks or around coffee tables having mistimed meals. A late dinner? An early breakfast? A delayed midnight snack? Time stopped making any sense in airports. Sometimes it felt like time just stopped.

In the middle of it all, a film crew was setting up for various angles of an upcoming shoot. They’ll be ready soon. She was ready now, changed into the clothes for the scene – a pair of jeans, a tank top, an oversized flannel shirt. Her hair and make-up was done, creating a messy look not so different from the one she stumbled into the set with a few hours earlier. It’s been a long day and as far as anyone’s concerned, it’s only just begun. Day one, scene one. Because three a.m. was a reasonable time to start filming. Nora sighed, reached to rub her eyes then forced her hands down. Cannot rub eyes. Rubbing eyes would smear make-up. Smearing make-up would mean more time re-applying it, more time until filming starts, more time until filming ends, more time until she can finally see her bed again. Nora was really missing her bed at this point.

“Here, you look like you could use one,” a hand holding a very large cup of coffee appeared. Nora took the coffee and followed the hand up a long arm, and up to the face of one of her co-stars, one Tom Hiddleston. It was just the two of them for this scene. ‘The Goodbye Scene’, she dubbed it in her head. It wasn’t the official name, but that mattered very little.

Everything was set up and they started shooting. Three different cameras followed her as she walked down the agreed-upon path to where Tom was standing leaning against the bar, a tumbler of apple juice with ice in his hand. It looked just like what it was meant to be, minus the side-effect of having him on the scale of buzzed-to-drunk by the time they’d finish the shoot.

Walk. Cut. Cue. Again.

They picked it up from where she was standing right behind him, she put a hand on his shoulder, opening her mouth to say his name as she should have, but no sound came out. He turned, his eyebrow arched a little. It was half his character, half a question regarding her missed line.

Cut. Cue. Again.

It took almost an hour to get everything done properly. Every angle. Every line. Every look. The way her hand rested against his shoulder. The way she went on tip-toe to reach his ear and whisper her line. The look in his eyes. The unshed tears in hers. For minutes at a time she stopped being Nora and was Max instead, and he wasn’t Tom, practically a stranger. He was Owen, the man who took her heart, ripped it out, then tried to pick up the pieces and give them back to her, glued together as if by the hand of a five-year-old. Max knew Owen. Max loved Owen. Max was saying goodbye to Owen.

Nora had no such feelings towards Tom. He was nice. He was her kind of funny. He was her kind of handsome. He was also, as far as she was aware, otherwise engaged. The seriousness of it was yet unknown to her, but there was a ‘ _she’_ he’d mentioned. Which was fine with Nora because there was a time and a place, and now was neither the time nor the place.

Which is why it was all going backwards.

By the time they were wrapping up the shoot four months later, it was painfully clear to Nora that be it by chance or on purpose, the damn man managed to steal her heart while she wasn’t looking. And he knew it. It was in his eyes when, one night in a local bar they all went out to after a day of filming, he grabbed her arm and pulled her for a dance. An awkward only-one-of-us-knows-what-they’re-doing-and-it’s-not-Nora dance. She was entirely not drunk enough for this shit. It was still in his eyes later that night when she _was_ actually drunk enough for this shit and agreed to another dance. And it didn’t go away.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she got on her tiptoes to speak right into his ear over the sound of the music.

“Like what?” Tom asked.

“Like you think it’s endearing.”

“What are you talking about?” he stepped back to look her face, Nora just shook her head.

“This,” she gestured at him, at them, at the edge of the impromptu dance floor. He looked confused. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist gently and pulled her outside. The cold hit her like a brick, sobering her up.

“What are you talking about?” he repeated.

“Nothing. I’m cold. Can we please go back inside?”

He nodded, then glanced around, noticing a few girls just barely out of their teens hovering nearby.

“Jesus Ellen!” he said, a lot louder. “This was a terrible idea! This place smells like…” he gestured at the bar, ran a hand through his mess of a hair, “Like chocolate pudding. Like fresh buns right out of the oven. Like pizza! You’ve brought me to an all-you-can-eat human buffet and you just expect me to control myself?!”

She took the cue, of course. It wasn’t the first time he did that to her, just pulling a scene out of thin air. Usually it was for shock effect, to amuse the masses. Sometimes it was just a way of communicating, or of passing the time. “You have to try!” she said, throwing her hands in the air in frustration. “You can’t just spend the rest of eternity holed up in a coffin! Or killing people because you can’t control it!”

“But they smell SO GOOD!” he half-whined. “And it’s so easy to just… sink my teeth into their crunchy little necks and drink. Do you even remember the taste of warm human blood? Do you?!”

“Of course I do! You don’t just-“ Nora stopped when she realized that, with a choked scream, the girls ran. She burst out laughing. Tom joined her, nearly folding in two.

“That was beautiful!” he announced.

It haunted her, that look in his eyes. She saw it even when it wasn’t there. She saw it when she was Max and he was Owen and he was literally making her cry, and it wasn’t anything he said that’s made her cry, and it wasn’t anything she thought or believed as Max that made her cry, it was the echo of that look in his eyes, a piece of Tom in Owen. And of all the pieces, he chose to keep this one. Bastard.

It got worse the more time progressed. It got worse because he stopped mentioning ‘ _her’_ whose name she’d never learned. It got worse because he seemed genuinely interested, because there was something else in his eyes now. And it couldn’t be there. There was no room for it there. There was no room for her there. He’d said so himself, in so many words. He’d talked about his schedule and how he simply doesn’t have the time for _anything_ , let alone _anyone_.

It got the worst when Tom knocked on her hotel door one night with a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates and said, “Oh come on, Agnes, give a bloke a chance. I got you wine _and_ chocolates, what else do you want?” his eyes twinkled in amusement, giving the act away.

“Agnes?!” she asked, appalled. “Who the fuck is Agnes?! You can’t even remember my name and you expect me to just forgive you for everything? Fuck you, Samson. Fuck you and your chocolates!”

Nora moved away from the doorway and nodded for him to get in.

“Samson?!” he asked once the door was closed.

“That’s what you get for Agnes,” Nora said.

She didn’t ask whether he was still seeing anybody back home, whether somewhere there was a woman waiting for him to call and tell her about his day. She didn’t ask why he came. She didn’t ask what it meant, whether it meant anything at all. She’d put on some music in the background and they drank and ate and talked, about the shoot and things they wanted to try and things they needed to fix and how he had to stop making faces at her off-camera or they’d never finish, about music and the importance or lack thereof of good lyrics, or any lyrics at all, about Shakespeare, which he went on and on about while Nora listened, half amused and half fascinated by his excitement, about Firefly, which she swore she’d make him watch even if it was the last thing she’d ever do.

For that one night of drinking and talking, that turned into that one night where he stayed in her room, learning her body much more intimately than he did the previous week on set, whispering her name and sweet nothings between gasps and grunts, for that one night – everything was just right.

And then the sun came up and reality set in. It set in quietly, without making a big impact or even a big difference. Everything was the same. And that was the problem, really. He woke up in her bed, left to get ready for work, and everything was exactly the same from that moment on. There wasn’t a touch that wouldn’t have been there a day before, nor a look, nor a word. Nothing. As if the previous night has never happened. By the end of the day, Nora wasn’t even sure that it actually had.

If there was anything worse than worst, it was the last day. Much like the first day, they were in an airport. They didn’t fly in together, but they were flying out together. His flight was an hour before hers, but it made sense for them to arrive together rather than taking separate taxis. Two other cast members and three crew members were with them as well, going on flights at around the same time. Nora excused herself and went to sit on the carpet by one of the full-length windows showing the runways. Goodbyes were never her strong side. She wasn’t sure she could go through a goodbye with him. She wasn’t sure she didn’t already go through a goodbye with him that she was just actively denying. The only thing she was sure of is that she couldn’t deal with any of this at the moment. She sat with her side leaning against the window, staring outside on the activity around standing planes and in the distance, at planes slowly moving towards the marked lanes.

“You look like you need this,” a hand with a cup of coffee appeared in front of her face. Nora followed it up a long arm, to the shoulders, then neck, then face of the man she knew would be standing there. He crouched then sat in front of her, mimicking her position with his side to the window, a matching cup of coffee in his hand.

She took a sip from the coffee, put it aside, took a deep breath, “Did I dream you, Samson?”

“Huh?” Tom was always the one who started their little scenes, she just followed them along. But this was her scene.

“The goodbye scene,” Nora said. “Focus. Was it a dream?”

A heartbeat. In that heartbeat, she didn’t breathe, waiting to see if he’d play along.

“Of course it wasn’t, Agnes. It was you and me, wine and chocolates. It was all real.” He put his coffee cup aside as well, leaned towards her a bit. “Didn’t we have a good time? Didn’t we drink and laugh and love like no one before us? Like no one ever would? Wasn’t it the most real thing to have ever happened to anyone?” When he locked his eyes with hers Nora looked away. “It was,” he said. “Of course it was.” She couldn’t look at him. Not at that look in his eyes. As if he were telling the truth. As if it all meant something.

“But it was gone in the morning,” she pointed out, her gaze following a plane taking-off.

A hand on her folded knee made her turn and look, “Nora…” his voice trailed off. He didn’t know what to say to her so he just looked at her, as if that would say it all.

“What?” she asked. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a breath, “No, nevermind,” she added after a moment. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he said.

She shook her head. It was a bad idea. She shouldn’t have started this. At least that way she’d still have the ifs and maybes, the fantasies. His hands wrapping around her head from both sides, fingers in her hair, palms on her cheeks, stopped the movement. “It does,” he said again, and leaned over the space between them to press his lips to hers. She opened her lips to him instantly, kissing him with all the pent-up frustration of the two weeks since their night together. When he pulled away, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

“This isn’t the goodbye scene,” Tom said, then, smiling, added: “no need for all this drama. I’ll see you soon.”

They sat with their backs leaning against the window, each with a cup of coffee, and watched the people move around the small airport. Some recognized him and stopped for photos. Some took photos from afar, thinking they’re being stealthy while pointing their mobiles at the sitting pair. Whenever Nora or Tom spotted one of those, they’d make a silly face at them.

“D’you think someone caught us before?” Nora asked.

“Probably.”

“What are you going to say when it hits the internet in…” she looked at her clock, “ten minutes ago?”

Tom shrugged, “We were working on a scene,” he turned to her, grinned, his tongue peeking between his teeth slightly.

“Oh is that what it’s called these days?” she laughed. He shrugged again, put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer. His body was still shaking from laughter. She rested her head against his shoulder and took a deep breath, breathing him in. He’d be gone soon. She hoped he was right. She hoped it wasn’t the goodbye scene. Not yet.


	2. The Photo

Everything stopped with a phone call from a UK number. Natalie stared at it for a few seconds before tapping to answer.

“Hello?” came a male voice from the other end. It had an accent to fit the country code.

“Hi,” the confusion was evident in her voice.

“Is this Natasha?” he asked. When he said her name, her heart sank right through the floor. She knew who it was. Tom. Tom was calling her. How? Why? Why now?

“Yeah…” she looked around the room, looked at the chair, considered it but started pacing instead. This was no sitting matter. This was pacing circles into the floor matter.

“I’m Tom,” he said, she could hear his relieved sigh, “You’re the girl from the photobooth pictures…?” it was half-statement, half-question, as if he knew it was her but wanted her to confirm it.

“Yeah…” she managed.

The photobooth pictures. She had two of them, tucked away inside her wallet where no one could see. A smiling, curly-haired guy with his arm around her younger self. A smiling, curly-haired guy turning her face away from the camera to pull her in for a kiss. They’ve cut the roll of 4 photos in half. He had the bottom two: the one with the kiss and the one after. She hadn’t seen the last two photos in nearly ten years.

“I’ve been looking for you,” it took all of these five words to punch the air right out of her lungs. Ten years. Ten years without a single word. She didn’t really expect them, they didn’t part on the best of terms, but ten years of silence while he grew and changed and starred in movies and became famous, became the world’s prince charming sans white horse. And _now_ he decided to call.

“Why?”

\---

It was only when she was standing in line to the border control passport check, that the situation started sinking in. She’d taken her first vacation days in over a year with barely a week’s notice, packed a small suitcase and got on a plane to London. Because of a man. Because a man called her out of the blue with a story, and she believed him. Because even if she hadn’t, she would have still gone on that plane. Because she still carried his photo in her wallet as surely as he carried her heart in his back pocket for almost ten solid years, without even knowing about it.

The crazy part was that, it turned out, he really didn’t know about it.

They’d had their stupid fight. She didn’t even remember how exactly it started, but it was her fault. She’d been so angry, but he was even angrier. His last words to her were “I don’t want to fucking see you again, you stupid little girl,” burned into her mind together with the memory of the back of his neck as he walked away, and the sound the door made as it slammed behind him. He left her standing in the middle of his room, and she had to pick herself up and walk out, past wherever he was in the tiny flat, and outside. A week later her summer course ended and she got on a plane back home, her summer adventure in London at an end.

They’d had their stupid fight and that’s the last she’d heard from him for ten years. And then he called and filled in the missing pieces. He went cycling the next day with a friend, they were rushing through traffic when he hit a rock, lost his balance and flew head-first into a concrete wall. He’d dislocated his shoulder, had a concussion and lost his short-term memory. The last thing he remembered when he woke up happened two months before. Before he even met her. Two months of his life, completely lost. He got bits and pieces back with time, but not her. She remained gone, the only memory of her – two out of four photobooth pictures – tucked away in the pages of a book he’d forgotten he even owned.

They fell out when he was organizing his bookshelf a month ago.

“Next please!”

Natalie stepped forward, presented her passport, waited as the woman scanned it, asked her for the purpose of her visit then stamped the entrance visa on an empty page. She stepped through to the other side, walked down the long hall and turned into the nearest bathroom. Looking at her face in the mirror as she was washing her hands, she wondered whether he’d even recognize her. She wasn’t eighteen anymore. She brushed her teeth, ran her fingers through her hair to try and make it look less of a mess, failed and pulled it into a messy bun at the back of her head. Some strands escaped immediately, curling lightly around her face. Natalie let them be. It was a fight not worth having, the hair would win.

The bags were already coming out to the baggage claim area when she got there. It took a surprisingly short amount of time for her suitcase to appear. During that time, she’d turned her phone on and sent a text message: _at baggage claim_.

The reply came just as she was picking her suitcase up from the moving track, the phone buzzed in Natalie’s hand and she nearly dropped it.

_See you in a few :)_

That was the point where the panic set it. She could actually feel her heart beat as she stepped towards the doors leading out of the baggage claim area, through customs and into the entrance hall. No, it wasn’t just beating. It was racing, trying to jump out of her chest straight through her ribs. This was, by far, her worst idea ever.

She spotted him right away, the moment she had a view of the room. There were hardly any people there – Luton airport after midnight wasn’t the liveliest place on earth. But even if there were a crowd, she was sure she’d spot him just as easily. Tom stood tall, taller than most, leaning against an empty bit of wall. He pushed himself off the wall when he saw her, adjusting his hold on a thick coat he had in his hand. A black knitted beanie hat covered his head and the tops of his ears. It looked entirely out of place combined with the button-down shirt he was wearing.

The moment he moved, Natalie froze, her hand tightening on the handle of her suitcase until her knuckles hurt, her other hand held onto her coat as if onto life itself. He reached her in three long-legged steps. She tried to breathe, but he was standing right next to her, blocking out all the air.

“Hi,” he smiled.

She opened her mouth, closed it back. A fish out of water, that’s what she was. She swallowed, “Hi,” the sound that came out of her mouth was a croak, so alien. Not her voice at all. Not her heart, jumping out of her throat. Not her fingers, tight around the suitcase handle. Not her eyes, staring up at a man she used to know, who didn’t know her.

He didn’t know her.

“I’m Tom,” he said, and the knife of realizing that he really, _really_ , didn’t know her, twisted inside her gut. “And you’re Natasha,” he added.

“You really don’t remember,” Natalie said. Her voice cracked on the last word. She swallowed the tears. Not here. Not now.

He shrugged, “I’m sorry. There’s these flashes, images, words, but nothing I can hold on to.” He reached for her suitcase, his fingers brushing against hers as he took it away, “Come, you must be tired.”

She followed him and her suitcase out the door and into the cold night. Tom paused to put on his coat and Natalie hurried to do the same. After a moment they took off again, past the taxis, past the bus terminals and into the nearest parking lot. He led the way to a black car.

“No fucking way,” she muttered. A Jaguar. He had a black Jaguar.

“You like it?” he grinned from ear to ear.

“Of course you have a Jaguar,” Natalie ran her fingers over the black metal cage. As far as cars go, this one was definitely… sexy.

He opened the trunk, put her suitcase inside, gestured for her to get in the passenger seat. She opened the right-side door and paused, looking inside and then at him. His eyes were twinkling in the darkness, a smile on his face, “You wanna drive?” he was laughing at her.

She rolled her eyes, going around the car to the other side.

\---

The warm mug of “ _proper English tea, not that junk you’ve been drinking up until now”_ was wrapped in both of Natalie’s hands, and she brought it to her lips slowly, taking a sip while listening to Tom talk. She’d done it the entire day – listened to him talk. He talked all through breakfast, talked through her day out in the city, through the walk in Hampstead Heath and Highgate Cemetery, through lunch, through the entire British museum, through dinner. He kept an arm loosely around either her shoulders or her side, and talked. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember more than a handful of things he said. His proximity was too distracting. She listened. She listened to every single word, but they just didn’t stick. What stuck was his palm burned into her side, right above her hipbone. What stuck was his smell and the way his lips twitched in a half-smile. What stuck was how the man he’d become now was hardly any different than the guy she used to know. Older, wiser, yes. But not very different.

He ran his fingers down his neck as he spoke, and the entire world became this one gesture. She smiled, her mind flashing with memories, countless memories of him speaking and doing the exact same thing.

“I used to dream about you,” he said. _That_ got her attention.

“What?”

“I didn’t know it was you. But every once in a while…” his voice trailed off, “you don’t know how to skate.” She could see the memory in his eyes.

“You remember that?” she couldn’t fight the hope.

He shook his head, sipped his own tea, “No. But I dreamed it. I don’t remember it anymore, but it was something with an ice-skating rink and you didn’t know how to skate. I think there was blood.” He looked confused, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was remembering it or making it up.

“Yeah… do you want to know the story?” it wasn’t much of a story, but she told it anyway. Their day out in the skating rink, where he learned she can’t skate and tried to teach her, how she slipped and fell and managed to cut her  arm open on someone else’s skate. There was blood _everywhere_. It took seven stitches to put her back together. She showed him the scar. He traced his fingers over the thin white line, the ghost of a touch. It made her shiver.

“What else?” he asked, he wrapped his hand around her arm, pulled her closer. “Tell me something else.”

It was her turn to talk. She’d dreaded it the entire day, hiding in her silence, hiding in his words. But she took a breath and, focusing on her half-empty tea mug, started the story from the very beginning. After a while she settled with her back against his chest, facing the curtained window. His chin bit into the top of her head but she didn’t complain, didn’t mind it at all. It was right where it should have been. Every time he’d stop her flow of words with a question or a comment her heart would lurch. He remembered some things. Moments, feelings. Things he couldn’t place before were suddenly making sense. And every time a piece of the puzzle was put in its place, she found herself breathing a little easier, and the story tumbled off her tongue faster, waiting for the next piece.

\---

It was like coming home. A day out in the city exploring while Tom was working – one photoshoot, two interviews, three meetings – and then coming back to the man in his low-riding sweatpants and a plain white shirt, sitting on the sofa, impossibly long legs sprawled in front of him, feet on the coffee table, a laptop in his lap, tongue stuck between his teeth in concentration. He looked up when he heard her come in and smiled. It was like coming home.

“Tea?” he asked.

The sofa has become their storytelling central, and tonight they were filling in the blanks of nearly ten years. Natalie told him about her work, going from a hostel receptionist to an administrative assistant to a CEO of a high-tech company. Tom told her about auditioning for the role of Thor and getting Loki instead, about how everything changed and grew insane.

“So what’s it like,” she said, twisting to look up at him, “to wake up one morning and realize you’re the internet’s new favorite prince charming?” before he could reply, she added, “you’re like, OMG, _so hot, so sweet, so perfect,_ ” she fanned herself with her hands, a mocking smile on her face.

He laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her body, wrapping itself around her heart. “Well, you know,” he said, “it’s about time they knew,” and it was her turn to laugh.

\---

He showed her his half of the photobooth photos. She took it out of his hand, wrapped her fingers around it and stared at the images. The kiss, the photo nothing but a blur of his light curls and her dark waves, and the last photo, the two of them looking at the camera, a genuine, un-worried, entirely happy smile on her face. He insisted on keeping the bottom half because of the last photo. Almost ten years separated that day from this one, almost ten years in which she’d tried to leave behind what could only be called a summer fling. Almost ten years that, it seemed, have gone entirely to waste simply because of a stupid fight. Because he didn’t even remember they’d had it. Because she acted like an idiot. She blinked and a tear fell on the mess of their hair in the photo. Shit. She hurried to wipe it off, rubbed at her eyes.

“Hey… what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said. She handed the photo back to him. “It’s just that… all this time…” she shook her head.

“I know,” Tom said, “I’m sorry.” Then, after a moment, his eyes lit up, “Don’t move.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, came back carrying a single Persian buttercup – white with purple edges, “did I get it right?” he asked. She nodded. Her favorite flower. “There’s a whole bunch in the kitchen, I got them on my way home,” he was evidently pleased with himself. Natalie smiled. She loved flowers.

“You should put it back,” she said, gesturing towards the flower in his hand.

“No,” he shook his head, lifted his hand and brushed her hair behind her ear with his fingers. “This one goes here,” and he weaved the flower into her hair, just above her ear. Her eyes snapped right up, staring at him.

“You remember,” she whispered.

He nodded, smiling, “I remember this.”

The flower in her hair.

She’d bought the small bouquet herself that time, all those years ago, and immediately took one of the flowers out and weaved it into her hair, right above her ear. “You look lovely,” he said, and the words echoed in her mind from light years away.

“And this,” he added. And then he leaned down and kissed her. The flower fell out within moments, driven out by his fingers buried in her hair. It tumbled to the floor unnoticed.

\---

Everything stopped with a phone call, and started again, some time later, with wheels hitting the tarmac at Heathrow airport, two large suitcases in tow, and one Tom Hiddleston waiting to meet her, excusing himself from the circle of people demanding his attention and wrapping his arms around her.

He didn’t remember. Not really. Just bits and pieces here and there. Something she’d said would suddenly appear. Something he’d said. Or he’d do or say something just to check her reaction, see if he was imagining things or remembering them. He didn’t remember much. But, it turned out, he loved her all the same.  


	3. Bosco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been listening to this song on repeat, and this is what happened.  
> Link to song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-qQ7fDSJyg

“Soph?” there was so much noise on the other end of the line that if it weren’t for the caller ID, she’d never be able to tell who was calling. She rubbed her eyes, rolled over, put the phone to her other ear. “Can you pick me up?” he slurred his words. Sophie closed her eyes in the darkness, then opened them again. The room was just as dark as before, and the person on the other end of the line was waiting, breathing into her ear from miles away.

“Where are you?” she asked, sighing. He told her the address of the club. “Why can’t you just get a taxi?”

“Please, Soph.”

Deep breath. “I’m coming. Don’t go anywhere,” she hung up, turned on the bedside lamp and looked at the clock: 02:12. She took another deep breath and put on a sweatshirt over her thin pajama top, slid into a pair of sweatpants, put on some socks and her 5-pound-from-Primark-but-remarkably-comfy Ugg lookalikes and grabbed her phone and keys.

It was colder outside than she’d expected, and Sophie huddled in on herself as she made her way to her old beat-up Nissan. Inside, she immediately started the engine and turned on the heating, but kept it on a low setting. Too warm and she might fall right back to sleep, which was generally a bad thing to do while driving. She tapped the address of the club into the GPS and was on her way, not even ten minutes after he woke her up.

Tom was waiting at the entrance to the club, leaning against the wall, chatting to a group of girls who looked barely legal and were evidently competing for his attention. He had a hand on the shoulder of a petite brunette and he was smiling at a blonde, speaking, animating with his other hand. Sophie watched the exchange for a few seconds, stomping on her jealousy. Then she pressed on the horn, making them all jump. He looked up and smiled, brighter than he smiled at any of the girls, excused himself and made his way towards the car.

“Sophieeee…” he got in, closed the door behind him with a loud bang. He didn’t seem to notice. “You came!”

Deep breath. “You called,” she said.

“You’re always saving me,” he leaned closer to place a kiss on her cheek, put his hand right above her knee. He reeked of smoke and alcohol and cheap perfume that wasn’t his. She put the car in gear and started driving.

She waited a few minutes before she spoke again, “You’ve got to stop calling me for this, Tom. I’m not your girlfriend anymore.” She had to remind herself as much as him. Not his girlfriend anymore. Not her place to be jealous of barely legal tramps. Not her job to pick him up when he’s too drunk to find his way home.

“You could be. You don’t want to,” he stared out the window as he spoke, but turned to her after a moment, “Why don’t you want to?”

Deep breath. “We’ve already talked about this.”

“There was a woman in the club,” Tom said, “she kind of looked like you. I danced with her for a while, but she tasted and smelled all wrong.” His hand was still on her leg, inched a bit higher on her thigh.

Deep breath. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

The street blurred. Sophie blinked and her vision cleared a little. One hand let go of the wheel first to rub the tear off her cheek, then to take his hand, gently, and place it in his lap.

“Soph…”

“Shut up, Tom. Just shut the fuck up.”

By some way of miracle, he actually did. The rest of the drive to his house was made in silence. She tapped in the code for the gate, parked in the guest spot, blocking his way out of the garage. Only when she stopped the engine and took the key out, did she dare to look at him. He had his head pressed against the passenger window and he was staring at her, blue eyes clear as the summer sky in some other country that wasn’t the UK.

“C’mon,” she said. He didn’t move. She opened the door, got out of the car, went around and opened his door. He lost his balance for a moment, but didn’t fall out. He stepped out, closed the door behind him with yet another loud bang he didn’t notice. He followed her mutely to the door. “Keys?” Sophie asked. He just kept staring at her. “Goddamnit, Tom,” she muttered, then went for his jacket pocket to look for his keys. They weren’t there. Trouser pockets. He was smirking when she looked up, the keys in her hand. “Wipe that look off your face, Hiddleston.”

“Why are you always so angry with me?”

She opened the door and stood aside to let him in, then closed it behind him, locking it. She disabled the alarm while he hovered behind her, so close she could almost feel him against her back.

“Why are you always so angry with me?”

Did he think she didn’t hear him the first time?

“Because you go out and get drunk with fuck-knows-who and then you call me up and expect me to pick you up, over and over and over again, and I do it,” she wasn’t yelling. She didn’t have it in her to yell at him, not now, not ever. “I keep doing it, over and over again. And when I try to get away you _still_ call me and I _still_ do it.”

Deep breath. He was home. Time to go. She turned back to the door.

“Don’t go.”

She didn’t turn. Breathe in, breathe out.

“Please, Soph.”

She turned.

This is why she kept coming back, over and over again. Because of that exact look on his face which she was determined not to turn around to, not to see. The lost boy. Her lost boy. But she couldn’t find him, couldn’t save him. He was as lost with her as he was without her.

“What do you want, Tom?” he’d drained all the energy from her. She couldn’t and didn’t want to fight him.

“Don’t go. I miss the way you smell.”

Sophie opened her mouth to speak but her throat contracted, choking the words. Her hand that was reaching for the door handle dropped back to her side. He visibly relaxed the moment that happened. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He got her, and he knew it.

“Come on then,” she said, going around him and into the house, “Bedtime,” without looking back she added, “To _sleep_ , Tom.” She heard his unpleased grunt.

He stumbled up the stairs to the second floor and Sophie could see how he tumbles and falls back, sending them both spiraling down the stairs. She’d break her back and crack open her skull, he’d have a few cuts and bruises and probably a broken rib or two, but the Sophie-mattress she’d be, bony as it was, would break the fall for him. Leave it to him to fall and have her the one broken at the end of it. He didn’t fall, though, and the relief she felt over that fact was entirely un-proportional.

Undoing the buttons of his shirt turned out to be a complicated mission, which Tom concentrated on for a full minute before giving up and flopping on top of the bed entirely dressed.

“Up,” Sophie ordered. After a moment of thought Tom sat up, then stood up. “Shoes, trousers,” she continued, her fingers already reaching for the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one. He toed off his shoes, fumbled with his belt but managed to get it loose. Sophie’s hands reached the bottom of his shirt and he moved his hands aside, allowing her access. There was a moment of pause while she waited for him to finish taking his trousers off and he waited for her to do the same. Eventually she rolled her eyes and reached for the button, then for the zipper. “You can pull them down yourself,” she said and stepped around him and to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Toilet.”

“But you’re coming back after…?” the desperation in his voice broke whatever was left of her heart. She nodded.

He was in bed when she came back a few minutes later, lying on his side, facing the door. Waiting for her. He lifted the blanket in an inviting gesture and Sophie took off the sweatshirt she’d put on, toed off her own boots and crumpled her socks into them, then slid under the covers, facing him. He’d shut off the main light and only the little lamps above the bed were on, casting a yellowish light on his face.

“Why are you always leaving me?” clear blue turned to stormy grey, red-rimmed.

“Because you’re always leaving me,” she answered, blinking her own tears away. She reached a hand, traced a path from his eyebrow to his cheekbone, then down to his chin. He closed his eyes and she could feel rather than hear his humming. It vibrated through her fingers and right into her soul. A sound she’d missed.

“I miss you all the time,” his eyes were still closed when he spoke, her fingers now tracing down his neck.

“Me too,” she nearly choked on the words, blinked the tears out of her eyes. She broke contact, turned to her other side, her back to him. In a heartbeat the bed shifted and he wrapped her in his arms, pulled her close. He still smelled of smoke and alcohol and cheap perfume. But his hands under her chin just smelled like _him_.

“Don’t go, Soph,” he spoke into her hair. “Just stay. I won’t leave.”

“You will,” they’d been there, they’d done that. In the end, he always left, and then he came back even more lost than usual and she’d be there, picking up his pieces and helping him glue them together. She took a breath, “Go to sleep, Tom. It’s late.”

He buried his nose in her hair and was out like a light. She spent half the night awake, trying not to shake and wake him up, blinking the tears away and trying to figure out when exactly something so simple became quite so complicated.


	4. Bosco II

He haunted her days. He was in the silences between words, in someone’s chin, in the wrinkles around another’s eyes. He was on a magazine cover on her way to the tube, and in the text message she’d been trying to ignore:  _May I phone you?_

He haunted her nights even worse. In dreams she could remember, and others she had no memory of the moment they’d ended. Remembered or not, the feeling remained. It was all very simple. She missed him. More than she was angry, more than she knew was healthy. She missed him more than she would ever admit out lout. But at night, with the feel of him fresh from the dream, with his eyes staring at her whenever she closed her own, she admitted it in silence. She missed him.

The screen shone too-bright in the darkened room. She ignored the ungodly hour and texted back. Just one word: _yes_.

It took no more than two minutes until her phone started buzzing, his name lit up the screen. She tapped to answer and pressed the phone to her ear, rolling over to her other side, facing the faint lamp-light that came in through the curtained window.

“Soph?”

Sophia swallowed the lump in her throat that formed immediately upon hearing his voice, “Hey.”

“Are you alright? It’s the middle of the night there.”

 _There_. He was away. He wasn’t here, he wouldn’t come.

“Yes,” she swallowed again, cursed her voice for breaking so easily. She didn’t meant to start crying. “I’m sorry… I just had a…”

“Hey… Soph, it’s fine. Don’t…”

“I’m not, I’m not,” she half-laughed, half-choked.

“Was it the one with the ocean again?” Tom asked. It wasn’t the first time she woke up from nightmares. He remembered. She shook her head, then realized he couldn’t see her.

“No…” a breath, “it was you.”

There was a pause, she could hear Tom take in a breath, could almost see him run a hand through his hair. “I miss you,” Sophia said into the silence.

“Me too,” he said in a rush of let out breath. “All the time.”

“Where are you?”

“New York,” he said. “Just settling in for the night.”

“Oh, I’ll let you get on with that, then.”

“Don’t be daft,” there was a shuffling noise, then he was back, “you’re not in the way.”

It was nearly dawn when they hung up. He talked, and talked and talked, and Sophia listened and tried to believe him. There was nothing in the world she wanted more than to believe it would be different this time. That he wouldn’t leave. It was some claim to make from half the world away, but they both knew this wasn’t what he meant. They’re all empty, he’d said. They’ve got their smiles and their bodies, and sometimes conversation and connection, but they’re all empty. And he’s empty too. She’s the only one who makes him feel any different. If it weren’t an echo of her own state of existence, she’d call bullshit. But it was exactly that. Nice men, wonderful, handsome, funny, clever men. And they never stood a chance in the shadow of Tom. Not one of them. “I just didn’t realize it until it was...” his voice trailed off, and he changed what he was going to say, “please don’t let it be too late, Soph. Please.”

He was back on Friday morning. She drove out to Heathrow and waited, too nervous even for a cup of coffee.

 _Picking up luggage_.

She looked at the time stamp on the text message. It’s been five minutes already. He’d be out any minute. Any second. Sophia spotted him right away. He was half a head taller than everyone else. Her heart stuck in her throat as she watched him walk, trailing a small trolley around him, a backpack slung across his shoulder. He was scanning the crowd. Then he found her, smiled, and she could breathe.

“You came,” Tom said when he reached her.

“I said I would,” as if there was ever a time she hadn’t come at his bidding. Even when they were broken up. Even when she thought she never wanted to see his face again.

He let go of his trolley, leaned down to wrap her in his arms, “thank you,” he whispered into her hair. It was an effort not to start crying again. Arms around his neck, standing on the tips of her toes, she clung to him, inhaling his scent, feeling his body against hers.

“This is the last time,” she said, speaking into his neck, eyes closed against the tears. “I can’t keep doing this. I don’t have the strength anymore. This is the last time.”

Tom pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. His were red-rimmed and she blinked in surprise, releasing a tear to roll down her cheek. “I know,” he said. “Last time. I promise.”

The drive to his house was quiet, his hand on her thigh both comforting and distracting. He fell asleep ten minutes into it, his head leaning against the window, his hand still on her. She turned on the radio for company and tried to concentrate on the road more than on him. Tried to organize the mess he made of her mind simply by existing. In close proximity, the mess grew bigger, louder, scarier. The hand on her leg made it all inconsequential, though. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered when he was near her. And that scared her more than anything.

The house didn’t look like it’s been abandoned for the better part of the week. There was fresh food in the pantry, the heating was on. There were even flowers in the vase on the kitchen table. Her favorite kind. Sophia glanced at him, questioning, but Tom just shrugged with a smile.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” he said. “Don’t go?” it was half a question, half a statement.

Sophia nodded, “I’ll fix us some food.”

He made two calls after his shower, one to his mother, the other to Luke, then put his phone in silent mode and left it on the kitchen counter. She raised an eyebrow at him. This was a new thing. He just shrugged again, and sat down to have their very late breakfast together.

“I learnt this tune,” he said later that day, sitting on the sofa near her, strumming random strings on his guitar. “For you,” he added.

“For me?” he never sang to her. He sang with her occasionally, or beside her, singing along to the radio. He sang to himself in the shower sometimes, or while tidying up the house or making food. But he never sang _to_ her. He knew her too well. Knew she’d read into the words, see things that weren’t there. So he never sang to her.

“Yeah. I heard it a little while ago and it… well, you’ll see.”

“If it’s that I think I wanna marry you song, I will smack you,” Sophia announced. He laughed, and it helped diffuse the tension rising inside her. She took a breath, gestured towards the guitar, “go on then.”

The intro didn’t sound familiar, but then he started singing and she recognized the song. Damien Rice. He was singing Damien Rice to her. Sophia wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, so she stayed silent, watching his fingers move on the strings, listening to Tom sing. He had a lovely voice. He missed a chord and cursed, looking up at her for a moment before turning his full attention back to the guitar.

“Tom,” her voice betrayed her and his name came out barely even a whisper. But he heard and looked up at her again. “Stop.” She said.

He looked stricken, “you don’t like it?”

Sophia shook her head, “I love it.” She said, “but stop. Go get your phone. Make your phone calls. Do your work.”

“No, it can wait.” He put the guitar away, leaning it against the edge of the sofa. He reached for her, pulled her towards him, settling her against his chest with his arms around her.

“Just a little bit longer,” she said, half-turning so she could look up at him. “And then I’m pulling out my laptop and you’re getting your phone. Because this is fucking weird.” He laughed, his body shaking, shaking her with him.

It was back to normal after that. He got his phone and disappeared into his study, reappearing every once in a while to get some water, to say something, to take something or put something away. It seemed, if Sophia didn’t know any better, than he was finding excuses to check and see that she was there. She was sitting on the floor, her laptop on his coffee table, her back leaning against the sofa, when he gave up on staying in the study altogether, and planted himself on the sofa instead, a foot on either side of her, a script in his hands.

She had her headphones on, reading an article while listening to that same Damien Rice song on repeat, humming along every once in a while. Tom nudged her with his foot and she turned to look up at him, moving the headphone off an ear in the same motion.

“I won’t let you down again,” he said.

“I…” the second word died in her throat and she changed what she was going to say, “I hope so.”

“Stay the night?” he glanced out the window, where the light has long since faded.

“Yeah,” she nodded.

Some time later Sophia gave up on staring at random webpages and relocated herself to the sofa, with her head on Tom’s lap. His hand settled on her shoulder as he kept on reading, entirely absorbed. The only acknowledgement of her presence was the patterns he was drawing into her shoulder and neck with distracted fingers as he kept on reading. She closed her eyes, tried to relax. It was so familiar. This is how they’d been. This is how they were. When everything was alright. When they were working. How long were they going to work? She couldn’t take another one of their clusterfucks. Couldn’t take him leaving her again. Couldn’t, but she knew she would. If it came to that, it would all be the same again. He’d go and she’d wait, then take him back. Because of this. Because of the way his fingers caressing her skin felt at that very moment. Because she couldn’t breathe properly without him. Not like this. Because she was just as broken as he was. They were each other’s glue.

“Shhh… it’s okay,” she woke up with a whimper, and it took her a moment to realize where she was, who was speaking. Tom. Tom’s bed. Tom’s room. “It’s okay,” he said again, from right behind her. She turned to face him.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay,” he repeated. “C’mere,” he pulled her close, wrapped the blanket tighter around her, ran his hand down the side of her body, over and over again, until her breathing calmed, until she closed her eyes again.

“Sing to me,” she whispered, because if he’d done it once, he may do it again.

He did. The same song, only without the guitar, and without her interruption. He sang it all the way through, all the while caressing her skin with a hand under his T-shirt that she’d put on. The silence was louder, heavier, once he’d finished. She tilted her head and kissed him, then broke it: “I love you.”

He chuckled, “I should sing to you more often.” He brushed the hair away from her face, kissed her forehead, “get some sleep. I love you too.”


	5. The Point.

I remember the day I met him. It was almost ten years ago. I could tell you the date, but what difference would it make? I’d only recently begun my job as the receptionist in one of the hostels downtown, and he was a guest. He came down one mid-afternoon, jeans and a t-shirt and wild, blondish curls, nodded as he walked right by me and disappeared into the guest kitchen. That was the first time I had ever laid eyes on him. First impression? A noodle. A tall, curly, slightly sunburnt noodle.

He came back a few minutes later with a steaming mug of coffee and sat across the reception desk, “Hi,” he smiled just a little, “You’re Alex, right?” I nodded. “Masha told me about you.” Masha was the other receptionist, and also, one of my best friends.

“Oh!” the penny dropped, “Tom!” she talked about him. They’d been out for drinks together a few nights ago. He grinned, drank from his coffee. That’s how it started.

Two nights later, we went out for drinks in the pub across the road. We talked about music and lyrics and life. We came back and watched videos on YouTube, drank tea, played cards. We slept, curled up around each other in his room. Or rather, he slept, while I drifted in and out of consciousness, woken by every little sound, every little twitch, every little movement – I never slept well outside of my own room, my own bed. The rain came with dawn, and I listened to the heavy drops hit the window, and watched Tom sleep. I woke him up before I left, it didn’t feel right to just go.

He said, “I didn’t even get to kiss you.”

So I kissed him. It all went downhill from there.

I don’t remember all of it, believe it or not. It was a long time ago, it’s all fragments and bits now. But there are spots around the old hostel that I could never go by without thinking of him. Of his arms around me, head on my shoulder, in front of the city-at-night picture at the top of the stairs. Of the stolen kisses out in the patio, around the corner, out of sight. And the one in the hallway – a goodnight, a goodbye. He haunted the hallways and rooms long after he was gone.

He left after a couple of weeks. Everyone leaves eventually, even those who stay much longer than expected and anticipated – they all leave. I didn’t cry – not then. We still emailed and chatted. I cried later, when an email came explaining that he did love me, just not in the way I wanted him to, and that maybe it would be easier for both of us if we just… stopped talking. I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe, and then I cried some more.

But that wasn’t the end. That would be too easy now, wouldn’t it?

Tom resurfaced. It was he who broke radio-silence first, although I was the one who’d been writing and deleting emails for weeks at a time. And we started talking again. Never about a future. Not our future anyway. Just talking. For months at a time. About his acting, projects he was doing, about how I needed to get away from the hostel and find something better. About how there isn’t really anything better because I really don’t care for careers, I just want to travel. I don’t care what I do for work. We talked about being lonely, about happy things, unhappy things. It was a sort-of routine. It went on and off, died down then flared back up. It took me a while, but I figured out he would turn to me whenever he wanted some affirmation of… I’m not quite sure what. That someone out there still cares. That someone out there still sits around, waiting for him. That someone loves him. He’d mentioned girlfriends, every once in a while. Those were the times he’d disappear. But eventually, he always came back.

Years passed this way. Years, in which I’d seen him all of four times. All four were when I flew to the UK on vacation. It was always a weird choreography of timing, but somehow we managed to find the time to eat lunch, to go to the park. One of these times I came over to his, and we each had our own bottle of wine, and we talked until it was easier to breathe, until we knew each other again, until there was nothing left to drink. Then we’d gone to bed and there was no more talking that night. Not the kind that uses words, anyway.

The last time I’d seen him, about four years ago, the last thing I ever said to him was “please don’t disappear again,” whispered against his neck as I was standing on my tiptoes, hugging him in the middle of the rather busy street. It took an effort to let go. It always did.

“I won’t,” he said, and then he shrugged, half-smiling, half-embarrassed, “except right now because I’ve got to go.”

And then he disappeared.

And then he appeared – on the internet, in movie theaters, in the papers. In friends’ conversations. He was everywhere around me, but so many worlds away.

We still talked sometimes. Emails here and there. But now it was mostly me who broke the silences, when I couldn’t bear them anymore, when they grew so heavy on my chest that taking a breath became a painful effort. I would email him, and wait, barely breathing, for his response. Some emails he choose (probably wisely) to ignore. Others have sparked conversations that lasted hours, days, but were exhausted eventually.

Life went on, as it often does whether you want to or not. I was no longer a receptionist. He was no longer Tom the guy from the hostel. We were different people. But I still wished him by my side all the time. My soul still ached to be closer to his. I broke eventually. I was the weak one between the two of us, and I broke, once again, and emailed him.

And so I found myself in a tiny park on the outskirts of London, somewhere not far from Tom’s house, sitting on a vandalized bench watching leaves fall into a small, round pond, waiting for him to show up, trying to organize the thoughts in my head. I had a speech ready. I knew what I was going to say. What I needed to say. I looked up and to the side just as he appeared up the path. There was no mistaking him. Or perhaps, someone else could have, but I knew him just from the shape of him. He was approaching quickly, his long legs covering the distance in a measured stride. Dark jeans – the same ones he’s had for years, the same ones he’d worn last time we met – and a button-down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. His hair was short, a reddish stubble on his face, and he looked like he hasn’t slept in days – he was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in at least for years.

I stood up when he reached the bench, “Hi,”

“Hi,” he offered. I took a breath, then reached up and wrapped my hands around his neck. A heartbeat, two, and then his arms wrapped around my middle, pulling me close. He smelled mostly of his aftershave, a new scent, but underneath, he just smelled like Tom, and I breathed that in as much as I could, and locked it away inside my mind, for future reference. He let go first, and I stepped back, sat back down on the bench. After a moment he joined me.

We stared at the water in silence. I practiced my speech again, opened my mouth but nothing came out. I wanted him to know, but I didn’t want to say it out loud. I took another breath and slumped against the wood digging into my back.

“So how’s it been?” he asked after the silence stretched so tight my skin was itching.

I chuckled, “You know, the usual. You?”

A half-smile, “you know, the usual.”

“How’s being rich and famous?”

“Not all it’s made out to be,” he shook his head slightly, rubbed the back of his neck. I watched the motion of his hand as he brought it down, stared at the place it was resting on his thigh now. My hand was itching to touch his, wrap my fingers around his thumb like on that very first night, many moons ago. I stomped the need down, kicking it for good measure. Then I choked on tears I didn’t know I had. How could we have reached this point, where touching him isn’t even allowed anymore? When did it happen?

“We can’t keep doing this,” I whispered, afraid that if I spoke any louder, my voice would break.

“Agreed,” he was as quiet as I was.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” I spat out the words before I could think, so that it would be too late to take them back. I spat them out, and immediately regretted them. What if he did? What would I do then? What would it make the past ten years to be? Wasted. They’d be wasted.

They were wasted regardless.

Silence. I tried to concentrate on breathing and not crying, stared at the leaves blowing in the breeze, avoided looking at him. Waited. There was nothing but silence. “You can’t,” I turned to him then, finally, his silence giving me courage. “Can’t you?”

“Alex, please,” his eyes were red-rimmed, his neck flushed. I blinked and a tear rolled out, down my cheek. He followed it with blue, swimming eyes.

“You can’t,” I repeated. “Yet we’re still doing this stupid… this pointless…” I gestured, at him, at us, not finding the right word. “Why?”

“Alex…”

“I’m so tired of this,” I rubbed at my eyes angrily, reached for my bag and rummaged through it for a bottle of water.

He said “I’m sorry,” just as I was drinking, and I nearly choked on the water. That caused more tears, more anger, more everything. I was so, so tired of everything. “What do you want me to say?” he asked helplessly.

“Say you don’t love me,” I repeated, “look into my eyes and say it.” I took another breath, trying to find courage that has already gone away. But I’ve started this, I may as well finish it. “You’re an actor,” I added. “You’re a brilliant, talented actor. Lie to me or tell me the truth, but tell me you’re happy, and say you don’t love me.”

And he couldn’t. He looked at me, tears in his eyes, but couldn’t say the worlds. It was getting harder and harder to breathe again. I drank some more water, hoping it would somehow help the air enter my lungs. Tom waited until I finished before he said something this time.

“How do you envision this to work, Alex?” he asked, “I travel all the time, I work all the time. I literally have no time to invest in a relationship.”

“I don’t know.”

“You can have any guy you want,” he said, “you can do better than this.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so the sound that came out was half-chuckle half-sob, “I clearly can’t.”

“Don’t do this.”

“ _You_ don’t do this,” I said.

There was that damned silence again. It stretched, then settled, tight against my skin. From the set of his jaw, tight against his, too. I counted to ten, then counted to ten again, then moved, scooting down the bench, and laid down with my head on Tom’s thigh, facing away from him. His arm lifted, then settled on my waist. “I love you,” I whispered into the air, to the maple leaf blowing across the asphalt.

“I love you too, you know,” his voice somewhere above me, his hand tightening slightly on my waist. “That’s not the point, obviously. But I do.”

My mind screamed, how was that not the point? That was the point of everything. That was the point of chats into the night, of lonely days, of going to work and coming home, of eating, of getting some sleep, of going out and drinking, of singing in the shower. That was the point of flying around the world just to see his face again, of calling just to hear his voice. It was the point of breathing and beating hearts. It was the point of sitting there, staring into the distance with tears in my eyes, too tired of crying, too tired of feeling, too tired of all the things I’d been doing alone instead of together.

“You idiot,” I said eventually, “That’s the only point there is.”

“Is it really?” he asked.

“It is to me.”


End file.
